


Something Interesting

by Evil Crutchie (PawPunk)



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: ? - Freeform, Crushes, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, Jack draws Crutchie, M/M, Pre- Relationship, Purple Prose, accidental "i love you", internalized ableism, negative body self- talk, written for saph's fic contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 02:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PawPunk/pseuds/Evil%20Crutchie
Summary: Jack asks to draw Crutchie's leg.





	Something Interesting

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: internalized ableism, negative body self- talk, minor internalized homophobia but not that noticeable

“Hey, Crutchie?”

Crutchie sat up, rubbing his eyes. His best friend was sitting on the old crate they had dragged up there ages ago, scrubbing at his sketchbook with a worn eraser. He set it down on the card table with a frustrated sigh and brushed the table off.

“Yeah?”

“Can I draw your leg?”

Crutchie sat quietly for a while, processing the question for a second. He didn’t like anyone looking at his leg for too long- it made him feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, an object to be observed. On the other hand, Jack was pretty good about treating him like a person. He probably didn’t mean anything by it.

“Why?” Crutchie finally asked. He pulled his bad leg closer to his body.

“Well, I was getting bored of drawing normal things,” Jack shrugged. “I wanted to draw something interesting, for once. Don’t worry though, that’s just plan A. I totally get it if you don’t want me to.”

“Well, what’s plan B?” Crutchie asked as Jack scooped up his sketchbook.

“Hit the street, see if anything inspires me there.” He started down the ladder.

“Oh no you don’t,” Crutchie said, crossing his arms. Jack froze. “Weren’t you just talking about how tired you were?”

“I mean, its no big-“

“C’mon up, you big baby. You can draw me.”

Jack pulled himself back onto the roof in one fluid motion. “So, should I pose or what?” Crutchie asked. 

“It might work better if you sat on the box, but if its too much trouble you don’t have to,” Jack said, fidgeting with his pencil. 

Crutchie grabbed his crutch and pulled himself to his feet, limping the few steps to the makeshift seat. He plonked down on it and leaned his crutch against the table. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “But it would really help if you rolled up your pant leg, ya know, so I could see what I was drawing.”

“Of course,” Crutchie muttered, pulling off his shoe and rolling his pants up to the knee. It felt weird to put his sock right on the rough floor of the penthouse, but it wasn’t like he could put it anywhere else.

“That’s perfect,” Jack beamed. “Now just hold it like that.”

Crutchie kept his legs still while Jack sketched. He was taking much longer than usual- normally Jack could bang out a figure drawing in minutes. Crutchie was suddenly much more self conscious. His leg was twisted enough to turn stomachs of customers if he didn’t make himself unnoticeable enough- what would Jack think of him after spending so long staring at his messed up body? He fought the urge to turn away, to hide himself. Jack wouldn’t, no, couldn’t hate him. Right?

“Done.” Crutchie’s thoughts were interrupted as Jack snapped his sketchbook shut. 

“Do I get to see? Or is it classified information?” Crutchie asked, trying to calm the aching anxiety in his stomach with snark. 

“Oh, right!” Jack smacked his forehead. “Here you go!” He passed the sketchbook over to Crutchie, one finger holding the book open to the drawing he had made. Crutchie took it, reluctantly opening the book to a most likely smudged, unpleasant sight.

But it wasn’t.

Jack hadn’t just drawn Crutchie’s legs- he had drawn his whole body. He had drawn his face resting in his hand as he stared off at the dusky skyline of New York. He had drawn his other hand tapping idly on the card table as he waited. He had draw the curve of his side as he leaned over and the way his hair fell in his eyes and the mismatched buttons on his shirt dotting down his torso.

And of course, he had drawn his legs. That was the whole point. But for some reason, his bad one didn’t look malformed. The limb looked like a wizened, twisted old tree, not ugly, just… interesting, exactly like Jack had said. Maybe even beautiful, if you looked at it just right. 

“Is it any good?” Jack asked, a cocky grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Crutchie breathed. He pulled a hand away from the drawing, and the color stuck to his thumb. Jack had shaded so carefully, keeping the lines of Crutchie’s body soft but defined. Glancing at the picture one last time, Crutchie felt important- like he was something worth drawing, worth immortalizing in paper and pencil so that people who didn’t even know him could see him and think he was pretty. Careful not to smudge it any further, he reluctantly passed the book back to Jack. “Its perfect.”

“Good.” Jack’s hand brushed his as he took his sketchbook, his grin fading from self- satisfied to something gentler. “Thanks for letting me draw you, Crutch. I know you don’t usually like it.”

“Can I keep it?” Crutchie suddenly blurted. Jack tilted his head. “The drawing, I mean.” Jack smiled, wordlessly opening the book back up. Carefully, he ripped the drawing from the other pages, and held it out to Crutchie.

“Of course,” he said. “Its of you, after all.” Crutchie smiled as he took the drawing. Jack’s fingers were colored too, and he had left prints all over the page. Crutchie resisted the urge to crumple it to his chest, leaving pencil lead over his heart. Instead, he carefully folded it, smudges and all, and slipped it into his pocket.

“That was awful bold of you,” Crutchie said, slipping his shoe back on.

“What?” Jack yelped, dropping his sketchbook. Crutchie laughed.

“Asking to draw my leg, I mean. Especially since you know I ain’t gonna pull my punches with you.” That was a lie, of course; Crutchie could never hurt Jack. On purpose.

“I regret nothing,” Jack joked. He picked up the sketchbook. “Time for bed?”

“Yeah,” Crutchie sighed. He sat down on their mattress and slid the drawing under his pillow before taking off his shirt. Jack took it from him, brushing a faint line of pencil on his arm as he did.

Crutchie wrinkled his nose, trying not to grin. “I love you, but don’t touch me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack waved his hand. “I’m gonna go wash my hands.”

“Good call,” Crutchie yelled as Jack hopped down to the fire escape. He heard him pause, then climb the ladder, his head popping up over the edge of the roof.

“Did you just say you love me?” he asked. Crutchie froze.

“Maybe I did,” he answered. There was a silence.

“Well, do you?” Jack questioned again. Crutchie looked at him. He wasn’t angry or upset or disgusted, just curious. Maybe, if Crutchie was willing to kid himself that much, hopeful?

“Maybe I do,” Crutchie said cheekily. Jack grinned and his head disappeared again. Crutchie listened to him climb the fire escape down into the lodging house. Crutchie clutched the folded drawing to his chest. Why had he said that? And why had it felt so good? He unfolded the drawing, looking at the careful way Jack had depicted him.

Maybe, he thought, because it was true.


End file.
